


i feel we're close enough (i wanna lock in your love)

by prosciutto



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Season/Series 04 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2018-05-01
Packaged: 2019-04-30 03:19:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14487705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prosciutto/pseuds/prosciutto
Summary: But he’s not looking out in the distance, or at the trees. He’s looking at her, his gaze tracking the movement of her fingers through her hair, the heat in it sending a frisson of anticipation surging down her spine.She could be wrong, but if the way he’s staring is any indication, it’s almost as if helikesit.Or: three times Clarke catches Bellamy staring at her new hair, and one time she does something about it.





	i feel we're close enough (i wanna lock in your love)

  **(1)**

 

The next time she sees Bellamy Blake— a whole six years after, without a galaxy between them— he’s bleeding out in a prison cell. 

There’s a moment of disorientation, of disbelief and shock and overwhelming,  _ overwhelming  _ relief before Clarke’s moving, fitting her stolen keys into the lock and twisting. He’s on his side, his face half hidden in shadows, but there’s no mistaking the familiar curve of his jaw, the tousled mess of curls.

(It’s the face she’s spent the last six years perfecting in the pages of her sketchbook, the face she’s pieced together carefully for Madi, rebuilding him from stories and memories and everything he’s ever told her. She couldn’t forget it even if she tried.)

He groans when she eases him on his back, and she tries not to wince at the mess of blood by his temple. It’s not deep, but he’ll definitely need stitches, at some point.

“Figures,” she murmurs, her voice hitching on a watery laugh as she rips at the edge of her shirt, wrapping it deftly over the wound. There’s a hysterical edge to it, _gleeful_ , almost, and she has to tamp down on the sudden hope surging in her chest. “Getting into trouble the second you get back down onto the ground. You never make it easy for me, do you?”

The last thing she’s expecting is a response _ ,  _ considering his less than conscious state, so she gives a little jump when his eyelids flutter open a second after, his lips forming her name. “Clarke?”

She stills, one hand on his cheek and the other still knotting at the ends of the bandage. “Bellamy?”

He manages a strangled sound of acknowledgment at that, the rise and fall of his chest evening out to a low, steady beat. “Present,” he murmurs, looking at her through half-lidded eyes. She can feel the heat of his gaze sweeping over her face, the rifle strapped to her chest. The blood coating the edges of her sleeves, her hair hanging loose.

A frown twists at his lips, his hand going up to rub at the ends of her hair. “What happened?”

(It’s stupid how she can feel a prickle of self-consciousness even now— deep in enemy territory, her hands caked in blood and with them seconds away from being discovered— but it’s  _ Bellamy,  _ and she’s always been soft for him. Even six years after.)

“I cut it,” she says brusquely, shaking her head so as to clear the fog settling over her thoughts. “Anyway, that’s not the point. We have to get you out of here, and I need to get—”

“Madi,” he says suddenly, the dazed look in his eyes clearing as he props himself up on his elbows, going alert almost instantaneously. “She made it to you okay?”

Clarke stares, the words clicking into place a beat too late. “You— You know  _ Madi? _ ”

“She was in here with me,” he says hoarsely, sitting up fully. He puts a hand up before she can even get the words in, his expression softening into one of reassurance. “Don’t worry, she’s safe. Monty got her out, along with the others. The last I heard, she’s bringing them to Eden.”

She can practically feel all the tension rushing out of her body at his words, her muscles going slack. “Safe,” she parrots, a breathless laughing escaping. “Okay, that’s good. Great. All we have to do is— wait,” she breaks off, rubbing at her temples. “What are you still doing here, then?”

He shrugs, rising to his feet. It’s slow going, punctuated by a flinch on his part when he straightens to his full height. “Madi said you’d come by to rescue her,” he says gruffly, pointedly avoiding her gaze. “I offered to stay behind, to intercept you if you did.”

“You  _ what _ ?”

“It’s a smart decision,” he counters, raising his arm to tick off his fingers, “Monty and Raven are needed to power up a vehicle, if they can find one. Emori and Murphy for weapons. Plus, I’d already memorized the floor plan of the ship, so—”

She pushes off the balls off her feet, throwing her arms around him before he can finish the sentence. It’s everything she’s wanted to do since she saw him, lying on the floor of a foreign ship, the one thing familiar in a sea of new; everything she’s wanted to say six years ago, right after she’d told him to hurry, to come back to her, intact and whole.

It’s a hug long overdue. It’s coming  _ home _ .

“You’re an idiot,” she tells him, burying her face into the jut of his shoulder. He smells of rust and blood, and something bitter and acrid and unfamiliar, but the arms that come around her waist are wholly familiar, as is the sharp inhale he makes in her hair.

“I always am, when it comes to you,” he says, so quiet that she nearly misses it entirely. She closes her eyes reflexively at it, fighting back tears and the expanding lump in her throat. It still feels like a dream, somehow, one that she’d wake up from minutes after, cold and alone and disappointed _. _

But he’s still there when she pulls away, looking right at her, his eyes dark and heavy with something she can’t quite seem to decipher. Maybe he’s afraid to look away, just like she is. Maybe he can’t quite bring himself to move either, as if one wrong step would bring them out of this moment, right here: standing nose to nose with the one person she’s missed the most in the world.

She clears her throat, taking a slow, careful step back. The words still come out raw, anyway, wavering in the quiet. “And here I thought I told you to use your head.”

The corners of his lips tick upwards at that, just the slightest of smiles. “Old habits die hard,” he says, shaking his head. Then, tilting his chin at the rifle looped over her torso, “Are we just gonna stand around, or are you going to show me that you actually know how to use that thing?”

She snorts, pulling it free carefully and cocking it. She thinks she catches a glimpse of pride in his face at it, the brush of his shoulder against hers comforting as they leave the cell together; falling into step with one another once more. “Let’s go home, Bellamy.”

  
  


**(2)**

They make it back to everyone else relatively unscathed.

The first few weeks are spent re-orientating themselves— to each other, and to living life on  _ this  _ earth, irrevocably damaged but healing, all the same. She tells them about the dead zones to avoid, and the fish they can catch, and the parts of radiation soaked plants that can be salvaged. They, in turn, tell her about the six years up in space, of survival and loneliness and the countless failed attempts at coming back down.

It’s… nice. A little strange, at times, considering how it’s been just Madi and her, for the longest time, but she likes it. She’s  _ missed  _ it. Her friends, specifically. Some more than most, as Madi likes to tease her, but she tries not to dwell too much on it. They have other things to focus on anyway, like figuring out what to do with the bunker, or Eligius.

Still, it’s impossible  _ not _ to think about it entirely.

“He’s staring again,” Madi mutters, giving a pointed jab to her ribs. They’re gathering water and herbs by the creek, with Bellamy and Emori standing guard closeby. No one wants to risk running into Eligius again unprepared. “And I’m not keeping count, but I’m pretty sure it’s the eleventh time in an hour.”

Clarke snorts, making sure to keep her voice level when she shoots back, “You do know that we’ve only been here for fifteen minutes, right?”

Madi manages an impatient noise in response, waving her off. “I’m just saying,” she insists, hitching her makeshift bucket up to her shoulder, “you both could  _ talk  _ to each other, you know. Instead of just mooning at each other from a distance.”

(It’s not something that’s completely out of left field— Madi has always believed that there was more to her friendship with Bellamy, even back when she hadn’t known him personally— but she’s been strangely  _ persistent _ about it over the last few weeks.)

Narrowing her eyes over at her, she asks, “Have you been hanging out with Raven?”

“Maybe,” Madi shrugs, the smile curling over her face turning mischievous. “Is she right?”

“That depends on what she told you,” she huffs, dropping the last of the seaweed into her bucket so she can fold her arms over her chest and glower. “What did she—  _ shit!” _

She’s not expecting the wave of freezing cold water; Madi’s loud, ringing laugh the only thing that keeps her from reaching for her knife. Sputtering, she wipes her face, resisting the urge to splash back. “Mads!”

Another laugh, this one further away from the last, and she thinks she catches a glimpse of her disappearing through the trees, Emori hot on her heels. A part of her is almost tempted to go after her, but she relents in the end. Madi knows the woods better than anyone, anyway, and at least Emori’s with her.

She’s wringing out the edge of her shirt when she hears the sound of approaching footfalls, sending water lapping at her ankles once more.

“Shut up,” she says reflexively, turning to meet Bellamy’s smirk. He has the sleeves of his shirt and pants rolled up, rifle slung casually over his shoulder, and it’s an effort not to stare at the muscles bulging through fabric, really.

“What? Wet dog is a good look for you, Princess.”

“We’re not doing that nickname again,” she grumbles, pushing her hair out of her face. She can feel it sticking to the back of her neck, damp against the collar of her shirt, and for a second, she finds herself wishing for longer hair to braid back. “It’s been six years, Bellamy. Let it die.”

He doesn’t say anything to that, long enough for her to look up at him, suddenly alert at the prospect of a new threat. Eligius, or mutant animals, or—

But he’s not looking out in the distance, or at the trees. He’s looking at  _ her,  _ his gaze tracking the movement of her fingers through her hair, the heat in it sending a frisson of anticipation surging down her spine.

She could be wrong, but if the way he’s staring is any indication, it’s almost as if he  _ likes  _ it.

Biting back a smile, she steps forward, right in his space. That gets his attention, at least, his eyes widening when she lays a hand over his chest, lingering along the ridge of his collarbone. 

“You do realize that I’ve cut my hair, right?” she teases, ghosting her fingers down his side. The shiver that erupts over his skin at it is immensely satisfying, as is the way he inches closer, like he can’t help himself. “I hardly think you can call me a Princess when I don’t have a crown.”

“It’s a mindset,” he says, mock-sombre. “Not just the hair. Besides, if the shoe fits…”

“Huh,” she says, tilting her chin contemplatively as she reaches up, sliding her thumb down the length of his chin, rough with his patchy stubble. “So, what? I’ll start calling you scruffy from now on?” 

He blinks, surprise clear on his face. Then, recovering, “Who are you calling  _ scruffy _ ?”

She pats at his cheek, shooting him the most saccharine sweet smile she can muster. “Hey, if the shoe fits, right?”

“That’s just— I’ll have you know that the beard makes me look distinguished, Clarke.”

“I mean, sure, of course, if you insist, but—”

She shrieks when his arms go around her waist, dangling her over the water until she somehow manages to get a leg up, kicking at his ankles until he goes down, too; the rumble of his laughter against her back warming her the entire way back to Eden.

  
  


**(3)**

It’s not like Clarke goes out of the way to  _ seduce  _ him, after that, but she’ll admit that she does use her hair to her advantage whenever the need arises.

Which, as it turns out, happens a lot.

“You know you guys are being really obvious, right?” Raven says, somehow managing to convey just the right amount of disgust and exasperation in a single eye roll. “Seriously. It’s nauseating.”

It’s second nature for her to deny it or play it off as something else, but Clarke can’t quite summon the urge to, in light of everything. Maybe they did do some growing up in the six years they’re apart, or maybe it’s because six years already feels like too much of a time to lie about how she feels about Bellamy Blake.

Shrugging, she says instead, “Do you think you could tell him that?”

“If he doesn’t have any idea by now, I can’t help him,” Raven snorts, flicking at the back of her short, barely there ponytail. It’s a haphazard effort on her part, but at least it gets the hair off her neck, and she  _ did  _ layer some loose strands artistically around her face.

You know, just in case Bellamy happens to come by. Which, according to Murphy, he will, mostly so they can get a headstart on uncovering the bunker.

“You’d think that six years apart would help you guys get your act together but you guys are still pathetic.” Raven continues, punctuating her statement with a particularly hard jab of her screwdriver. “Like, has it ever occurred to you guys that telling each other—”

“Tell me what?”

She jolts at the sound of his voice, deep and smooth and  _ amused _ , of all things. True to form, Bellamy’s hovering by the door, shirtless and sweaty from all the bunker preparation. The shirtless part didn’t use to be a thing, not until  _ she _ started with the hair, which basically means they’re in one of the most frustrating games of sexual chicken, ever.

(... fine, so maybe Raven does have a point.)

“That you need to put a shirt on,” Raven says, without missing a beat. “There’s probably still some leftover radiation waves floating around, you know. You want an extra nipple sprouting out of there?”

He shrugs. “I’ll take my chances,” Bellamy says, pushing up and off the doorway. She can feel the weight of his stare against the side of her neck, sliding down to the curve of her bare shoulder. “How’s the calculations going?”

“Good,” she manages, working to keep her voice even. It holds steady, even at the slow, predatory once-over he gives her, his gaze roving back to the exposed sides of her neck. “If everything goes according to plan, we’ll get the door open in a week.”

“Great,” he says, leaning over on his elbows to glance cursorily at the sheet of figures before her; close enough that she can feel the heat of his skin radiating off him, the length of his arm resting against hers. His bare chest is glistening, hair rumpled and pants hanging low on his hips, and she has to repress yet another shiver when his pinkie grazes hers. “I’ll show this to Miller?”

“You do that,” she says, her voice catching on the word when he reaches up, brushing a loose strand behind her ear with gentle reverence.

“There was ash in it,” he says, with all the innocence of a newborn baby fawn. Then, before she can react, “I’ll see you later, Princess. Gotta towel off all this filth.”

(She’s pretty sure she doesn’t imagine the way his voice dips at the word,  _ or  _ the wink he throws her way before he ducks out of the door, leaving her hot and stupidly,  _ stupidly  _ bothered.)

  
  


**(+1)**

They get the bunker uncovered and opened two days ahead of schedule, which, ordinarily, would be a good thing, except for the part where they’re  _ not _ expecting what they find.

The people are cagey and frightened, the number of dead bodies surpassing the ones alive, and Octavia is staying strangely mum about the ongoings of the past six years. There’s a mad scramble to get everyone food, water, and  _ resources,  _ and there’s barely enough time for herself, let alone any time with Bellamy to figure things out.

So he’s just about the last thing on her mind when he finds her secret hiding spot.

“Occupied,” she calls out, mostly just to be difficult. He startles at it, backing up and tilting his head back to look up at her, perched against the rafters.

“Do I even want to know how you got up there?”

“Incredible dexterity and skill,” she shoots back, easing her foot down carefully until she finds a foothold, clambering down smoothly. “Incidentally, I gotta know: how did you find my hideout?” 

He snorts, rocking back on his heels. “You’re not exactly inconspicuous, Princess. Who told you that red is a good form of camouflage?”

She brings her hand up to the fading streaks of red in her hair. “Right,” she says ruefully, shrugging. “Madi did it. Sleepover activities are sadly limited in this millennium, I’m afraid.”

He gives a small chuckle, kicking lightly at her ankle. “What, is target practice off the table now?”

It takes her a second to pick up on what he’s referring to— of a night a long time ago, in another bunker, and a warm hand against her back. “We did that two months back,” she says, drawing closer. There are dark shadows under his eyes, along with a new layer of messy stubble that she’s tempted to graze her fingers over. It’s obvious that he’s exhausted, just like her, and she can’t help but feel a little amused at how they do everything together, even now.

“Huh,” Bellamy says, conversational. “Well, there’s always pulling a lever to irradiate an entire mountain full of people.”

There’s a kind of levity to his voice that she’s never heard before; a kind of lightness that makes her heart lift. It’s acceptance, and admittance, and forgiveness of every mistake they’ve made, and it makes her feel strangely hopeful, somehow.

“Either that or defeating a killer A.I.”

“Or a pack of drugged up grounders.”

“Or just grounders, in general.”

He gives a soft laugh, his breath warm on her shoulder. “We’re forgetting big, bad radiation.”

“Mm,” she says, making a face. “I think I’ll stick to dyeing my hair with berries, thanks.”

“Oh, that’s what it is?” he asks, quirking a brow over at her. “It’s subtle. I didn’t notice.”

She scoffs, fighting back the shiver that runs through her body at the rapidly closing distance between them— his wrist grazing at her hip, her cheek a hair’s breadth away from the curve of his shoulder. “Could have fooled me, with the way you were staring.”

He takes another step closer, gaze roving over her face and settling on her lips; an unconscious movement. “It’s not like you weren’t looking, either,” he says, his voice low.

A laugh escapes, breathless and short and heady. “I always am,” she brings herself to say. “It’s getting to be kind of a problem, actually.”

“Yeah, well,” he tells her, sliding his hands into her hair, eyes bright and smile wide and it dawns on her, in that exact moment, that Bellamy Blake is going to  _ kiss  _ her. “I guess we’re on the same page as always, Princess.”

“Thank God,” she says, right as he seals his mouth over hers; the kiss  _ sweet  _ and thorough and burning right through her, making her knees go weak. She twists her hair into the lapels of his jacket, pulling him closer, and the laugh he gives in response is possibly the best thing she’s heard, all her life.

Bellamy pulls away first after what feels like hours, panting slightly, and she makes sure to press one last kiss to his cheek before pulling away.

“Let me guess,” she says, leaning forward so their foreheads touch; keeping each other upright. “It was the hair that did it, right?”

He gives yet another helpless laugh, and this time when he kisses her, it’s chastising. “You came out of nowhere with a kid, a gun  _ and _ short hair, Clarke. I’d say it’s a combination of all three.”

“You have weird fantasies, Bellamy Blake.”

“And let  _ me  _ guess,” he counters, poking at her side teasingly. “It was the beard that did it for you.”

She slides her hands down to his waist, both of them still swaying slightly on the spot; an anchor and a lighthouse and everything that’s keeping her standing, through everything. Her person.  _ Bellamy.  _ “Amongst other things,” she tells him, letting her eyes flutter shut when she feels him draw closer, his mouth grazing hers.

“Amongst other things,” he agrees, before leaning down to kiss her once more.


End file.
